


The Turning of Days

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five ficlets about Ellaria and Cersei under different circumstances in different AUs, spanning the course of one afternoon into the following morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afternoon in Westeros

The afternoon was young.  The wine was strong.  Indeed, that had to be what made Cersei think this was a good idea; that when the woman had approached her in the gardens and invited herself into Cersei's bed, she had agreed to receive her rather than slap her and treat it as the insult it was... Wasn't it? This Dornish bastard so boldly presuming she could find her way into the queen's bed? Never mind that she had not begun drinking in earnest until after she'd said yes.  The wine was strong, and Cersei was... Curious.

  
She surveyed Ellaria Sand from her perch amid the silken pillows on her great bed, looking regal even when naked. It was an art, and Cersei had long ago perfected it.

  
The Dornishwoman moved towards her through the slanting bars of golden afternoon light that pierced through Windows of the bed chamber. Ellaria was looking at her with lust, but not the simpering sort she'd seen on Lancel's face when she'd granted him her favors, nor the possessive sort she'd see on Jaime, nor the blind, entitled look of Robert stumbling in drunk and claiming his wife's cunt because he could -- lust with a blast radius. This was something else entirely: hot, focused, inviting.

  
"You should approach the Queen with more humility, bastard," she coolly.

  
"Why?"  Ellaria asked, her dark eyes mocking but still intrigued.  "Does a Queen fuck differently than a bastard?  We are no different from one another when we are naked and consumed with pleasure."

  
Cersei smiled, but there was no warmth in it.  "Let's find out, shall we?"

  
She knew of Ellaria's prince and his intention to pursue revenge on her family.  She also knew what tended to happen to those who pursued revenge against Lannisters.  He would be dead soon enough, one way or another, and she relished the thought that perhaps she was claiming his woman as a prize in advance of it.   
"Where is Oberyn?"  she asked.

  
Ellaria moved closer.  "He thought you might have a better time if I visited you alone."

  
Cersei's eyebrow lifted a bit, but she said nothing for a moment as she watched Ellaria disrobe.  Her fragrance was foreign, delicious, strange; lavender, cassia, cayenne, rosewater.  Her body was... intriguing; bronze skin, full breasts, hips luscious and overripe.  And when she settled her long, naked form next to Cersei's in the bed, Cersei felt the curiosity in her blooming from a faint blush into a full-fledged heat, radiant between her legs.

  
She was accustomed to occasionally claiming her rights with a wilting handmaiden, who would go limp at her touch and spread her legs obediently, and then be too ashamed to look at her the next day.  But Ellaria never broke eye contact.  When Cersei thrust her fingers inside her, Ellaria moaned encouragingly and returned the favor, running her hands over the queen's body with no thought or hesitation as to what her rights were or were not.  When Ellaria slipped down and rested her cheek on Cersei's thigh, preparing to lay her lips to the heat of her sex, she dismissed Cersei's weak protests with a wave of her hand, and then rendered her helpless to the sweet torments of her tongue.

  
Cersei felt strange, hot, something like anger at being so spread open, so broken with pleasure under this woman's mouth.

  
"I am the queen," she moaned, meeting her climax.

  
"Of course you are," Ellaria sighed indulgently, fingering her lightly, admiring her, smirking at the tremors her fingers would send through Cersei's golden body.

  
"You shall never speak of this to anyone," Cersei ordered, but her voice was breathless and desperate, lacking the cold command she was  normally so good at.

"Of course, Your Grace," Ellaria replied with mild mocking.

Cersei drew the woman up beside her, preparing to make sport of her; but even here, the woman had opinions: "harder," "another finger please," "wonderful, your Grace"...  Cersei found herself angrily trying to prove something to a woman whom she knew to be beneath her.  It didn't matter.  She would make her come. And then again.  

The wine was strong.  And the afternoon young.  And she would ride it to its end.


	2. Evening in Greenwich Village

The evening was young, and the traffic whispered soft things in her ear.  Cersei found herself standing on the wet cobblestones, looking at the tiny door that led up to the woman’s apartment, the needle in her mind skipping back to half an hour ago.  

“You look like shit,” the woman had said to her, “Let’s get you out of here.”

It was probably the only time anyone had ever used “you look like shit” as a come-on, but the truth was, she actually did feel like shit.  Sitting in that smoky, cramped club with its incredibly low ceilings, listening to some curly-haired savant called Jon Snow strumming his guitar and mooning about, “ _How many roads, must a man walk down, before you can call him a man_ ,” or some such nonsense, would have been enough to make anyone feel like knocking back as many glasses of wine as she had.  It was cheap stuff, barely drinkable, but strong.  And shortly thereafter, she felt like shit.

So when the other woman’s warm hands settled on her back, touched her clammy cheek,  and pronounced her as needing some air, Cersei didn’t put up much resistance.  It had just rained and the air felt cold and fresh on her cheeks.  

“I don’t know why the label thinks this folk music bullshit is the next big thing,” Cersei grumbled as she walked unsteadily into the night.

“You’re A&R?” the woman asked with some surprise.

Cersei shrugged and didn’t say more.  She worked for her father, the tycoon of the biggest label in North America.  The starmaker.  She didn’t feel like bringing up his name just now, though.  She lit up a cigarette and watched a fat yellow taxi roll by through the mist, slowing for a moment to see if she wanted it before she waved it off.

And then, she couldn’t remember everything that happened next.  The woman smiled and said, “I’ll walk you home,”   and her accent sounded like sea breezes and olive trees and good wine.  They strolled through the streets of Greenwich Village, the woman’s arm hooked through hers, Cersei leaning on her a bit more than she should, trying not to stumble in her shiny black Mary Quant slingbacks with the heels that were feeling impractically high at the moment.  They meandered through Washington Square Park, and up underneath the arch, with George Washington giving them a rather nonplused look as they strolled/stumbled by.  Cersei smelled perfume and cigarettes on her companion’s black curls, her arm was warm and solid.  She felt free to rant about the crummy club and when was President Kennedy going to do something about all those reefer smokers anyway?  And through it all, the woman continued smiling.

“You’ve got a vicious tongue,” she remarked, looking amused.

“What about it?” Cersei had snapped.

The woman shrugged and slid her arm around Cersei’s waist as they continued their uneven stroll up Fifth Avenue.  She was warm and solid, and Cersei liked it, so she didn’t complain at it.  She draped her own arm around the woman’s shoulders, the better to steady herself, she decided.  She kept tilting her golden head down to let it rest against the woman’s, breathing her lavender perfume, smelling the wine and cigarettes that clung to her new friend's hair.   _Because I am drunk and I am tired,_ she said to herself, _so tired_.

How many blocks had they walked at this point, until they’d found themselves here?  She wasn’t sure.  “This isn’t my house,” she realized.

“Of course not,” the woman said, giving her a sly smile.  “I don’t know where you live.  Although,” she added, slipping a hand inside of her wide-lapeled mod jacket, which hung open (when did that happen?  she didn’t remember unfastening those big buttons...), “you seem like an uptown girl.”

“I am,” Cersei answered, trying to lift her chin enough to seem haughty.  But the hand, the hand inside her jacket, it was… distracting.

“Well, I’m not.  But you might have a good time anyway.  Why don’t you come up for a while?”

Cersei looked doubtfully at the tiny door, the spanking new brick building, and then back at the woman.  She was warm, and solid, and smelled good.  “I don’t know your name,” she realized after a moment.

“It’s Ellaria.”

Cersei nodded once.  “Cersei.”

They regarded each other for a moment, then Ellaria pulled her face down and kissed her; it was strong, but soft.  It didn’t feel like a demand, the way it did when most men did it.  It felt like an invitation.  Ellaria’s mouth felt like an open door.  Her tongue felt like a request.  Cersei could say no if she wanted.  She didn’t want to.  She looked around self-consciously.   _As if I need to worry, as if anyone I know would be caught dead in Greenwich Village,_ she scolded herself.

“So?”  Ellaria asked.

Cersei shrugged.  “Fine.  Let’s go.”


	3. Midnight in Alaska

The moon was barely visible through the heavy layer of clouds that seemed to have eaten the stars, the same clouds that had dumped this blizzard on them some hours ago. It was midnight, and Cersei was already sitting up, collecting the pins and chasing her golden locks back into order. Then would come her crisp WAC uniform, and then her army-issue coat, heavy as lead, and fur lined hat. She would trudge back to base and pretend that nothing had happened. 

The fire that had roared in Ellaria’s fireplace last night was down to faintly glowing embers. Ellaria turned over, barely visible in the dark. “Captain,” she sighed sleepily. “Are you heading back to base already?” 

Cersei had been lost. She’d been in the pines, looking for the crash site of what her commanding officer had believed to be an errant weather balloon. It had been the worst snowstorm she’d experienced since being stationed in Alaska, and Ellaria’s dogs had found her trying rather unsuccessfully to brave her way back to the base. 

Ellaria, wrapped in several layers of fur, brought her back to her cabin, lit a fire, helped her change into some warm, dry flannel pajamas, covered her in wool blankets, and given her a pipe full of something. 

"I've never smoked that stuff," Cersei had admitted through her violent shivering. 

"It'll relax you, you'll feel good," Ellaria assured her. Then, with a look of naughty suggestion, she added, "You might feel a little... loose, though." 

Cersei hesitated for half a second, but Ellaria's dark eyes, they were so... Warm. She wanted to feel that warmth all over. "That sounds alright," she'd decided, holding Ellaria's gaze long enough to make clear that she'd taken her meaning. "A gal could stand to loosen up now and again."

She took a few pulls from the pipe, and it made her feel light and easy --a strange feeling that she was not at all sure she liked. That feeling let her forget her position, her rank, her station, her job. It had let her forget that the woman was something from another time entirely, something ancient and tribal. It had let her forget everything but the warmth of the fire, the hot chocolate, and Ellaria’s skin. Never would she have imagined herself lying down with “some goddamned Eskimo” as her father the General would have referred to her, yet she had. With Billie Holliday coming scratchy through the radio, bathed in the orange firelight, with the dogs sleeping calmly in the corner, she had let Ellaria warm her; lips, flesh, blood, bones, sex. It was a revelation. Stratospheric. The bearskin rug was softer than silk, than clouds, beneath her back. And Ellaria had tasted… like smoke, like whiskey, like lemon butter, like the ocean, salty in her mouth. It had been blissful. 

And then she'd fallen asleep curled around her, pressed against her back, arm over her waist, under the thick pile of blankets. She'd half-woken in the night, her drowsy hand reaching through the thick curtain of sleep to trail down Ellaria's stomach, stroking her until she was rocking softly against Cersei's fingers, and Cersei was rocking with her in a dream-thick rhythm as gentle as a calm sea. 

But now, in the grey pre-dawn, she was sifting through her pockets for hairpins, excuses and blame. 

“Yes,” Cersei answered evenly. “Back to base. They’re going to send out the search dogs soon.” 

“Have you looked out the window?” Ellaria yawned. “That was a fucking pirta I found you in--” --one of many Yup'ik words for a severe blizzard-- “Nobody is going to be sending shit.” 

Cersei peered out the window. She wasn’t wrong. There had to be three feet of snow out there. “You’re not going anywhere, and nobody is coming until the sun comes up.” 

Cersei, half in and half out of her uniform, turned and looked her again. She got up, walked to the fireplace barefoot in her starched blouse and green jacket, and tossed some more kindling on the embers. She worked the bellows for a few moments until the light twigs caught fire. She didn’t say anything more as she stacked layers of heavier wood on top of them, and then added a log. 

“Nice work, Captain,” Ellaria complimented her, looking her up and down. “Now take that shit off, come back to bed, and fuck me again. Nobody is coming until the sun comes up… except us.” 

She didn’t need to be asked again. The night was half over, and by the look of things, the day would not begin for a while. Long enough to lose herself in this woman a few more times.


	4. Pre-Dawn at Sea

A sliver of moon had caught itself in Cersei’s eye and pulled it open, tugging her to consciousness through the porthole as it trekked across the sky, dragging the streaky grey light of pre-dawn behind it. It took her a moment to remember where she was; that she was rocking to the rhythm of the sea now, that the breeches and sword lying on the floor beside the berth were hers, that the woman sharing the too-narrow berth with her … well, she wouldn’t really call her “hers”, since Ellaria the Black belonged to no-one, but Cersei had just done fucking her in a way that might have made her “hers” if she were if it were any other girl back in Barcelona. 

Or so she supposed.  Cersei hadn’t had women till now. Nor swords, nor rum. She hadn’t had much of anything apart from her father’s demands to be more feminine, more graceful, more like her mother. But she was nothing like her mother, except perhaps in beauty. Cersei had more of her father in her, and maybe that was what he hated. 

Ellaria the Black and her men had tried to kidnap her from the little _barco de recreo_ that she’d been cruising about in, her little pleasure boat which she’d knowingly, rebelliously taken too far from the shore. Yes, Ellaria had tried to kidnap her, but her plans were thwarted by the fact that Cersei was all too happy to go. _Take all my father’s gold and whatever else on board that you’d like,_ she’d said _. And take me, too. Ransom me for as much as you wish. But_ dios mio _, do not send me back to him._

Ellaria thought it was funny, but she took her. Gave her clothing, a sword, a dagger, and began teaching her to use them. 

Cersei shifted, trying not to wake her, her mouth thirsty for more of the rum to lull her back to sleep. She would not look again at the maps just now, she promised herself. Would not think of home, or Jaime, or anything else. She would drink more rum, and go back to sleep. She leaned half of herself off the edge of the berth, feeling about for the bottle that had dropped to the planks when they tore into one another some hours ago. 

Ellaria stirred and traced a finger down Cersei’s back, all the way down to her tailbone, making her shiver. “Looking for something, _reinita_?” she yawned, sexy even in her sleep. Little queen, the pet name she’d immediately given her, was so oddly silky coming from such a rough mouth. 

“The rum,” Cersei answered, continuing to feel about for it in the half-dark. 

“You drink too much,” Ellaria scolded. “Come back to sleep.” 

“A pirate is telling me I drink too much?” 

Ellaria was unmoved by Cersei’s imperiousness. “All the more proof of a problem. Come back to sleep.” 

“I can’t sleep,” Cersei snapped, “That’s why I’m looking for the rum.” 

Ellaria propped herself up on one elbow. “I’ve got something better than rum, little queen, and you will sleep like a baby when I am finished.” She arched an eyebrow and waited. 

Cersei hauled herself back into the berth. 

You couldn’t tell the time at sea, but it would have been just before dawn. The night was nearly over, and the pleasures of Ellaria’s mouth were stronger than rum.


	5. Sunrise in NoCal

The sunrise glowed pink through the windows of Cersei’s bedroom.  It made its gentle way across her skin, urging itself through the floor to cieling windows.  The redwoods outside stood as ghosts in the mist, protective and ancient.  Hers.

The sunrise warmed the skin of the woman beside her: Ellaria, bronze, beautiful, brash, bold.  Cersei had stolen her from a boyfriend who was good enough, but not as good as her.  It was a theft she would never regret.  Every writer needed a muse.  Ellaria could be hers.

Hers.

Ellaria, the dancer who suffered none of Cersei's attitudes and excuses, whose speech was so blunt it was a poetry of its own, who knocked her off her horse and taught her to climb, and in the end, put her someplace higher.  Ellaria, who taught her to dwell in her own desire, to own it, to enjoy it.  To lose herself in the elation of a proper fuck, to listen to her lover’s body, to listen to hers.  

Hers.  Yes.

Morning’s pulse, familiar and tender, carried the pace of their breathing, their waking, their lovemaking.  Sweet and lustful, twisting around each other.  They would eventually rise, make breakfast, go hiking through the redwoods out to the cliffs to stare at the Pacific; have relaxed, clear-eyed sex on a blanket in the early morning sun, before it got too hot.

The day was young.  And she would ride it to its end.


End file.
